


By Andraste's Grace, We Will Find Home

by MartyrJoan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25355584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyrJoan/pseuds/MartyrJoan
Summary: A story of a Warden, her songbird, an Inquisitor, and her Ambassador. Told in two parts.Part one: During the Fifth Blight, Warden Tirza Aeducan is surprised and overwhelmed at her own affection for the human bard in her company. They speak of dreams, home, and sweet-smelling flowers until confessions are made.Part two: Ten years later, Inquisitor Eliza Cadash is smitten with one of her advisors, the beautiful Josephine Montilyet, but she cannot seem to win the favor of Josephine's friend and co-advisor, Spymaster Leliana. Eliza is furious, afraid that no matter what, she will never measure up to the fabled Hero of Ferelden in the eyes of anyone in Thedas, let alone the woman who loves her most.
Relationships: Female Aeducan/Leliana (Dragon Age), Leliana/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Leliana/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 11





	By Andraste's Grace, We Will Find Home

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter features my Aeducan, Tirza, who truly believed in every bit of Orzammar society and her place in it before her worldview was shattered with her betrayal and exile. She is a mixture of stoicism and newfound gentleness as she navigates the surface world. 
> 
> A couple lines of dialogue are taken from in-game, but the rest is mine.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**9:30 Dragon. The Fifth Blight.**

**Somewhere in Ferelden.**

“Has anyone ever told you that you hold yourself like nobility?” Leliana’s voice is tentative, breaking the stiff silence between them. She is a few feet away, sitting on the dirt and leaning back on her arms, still in her armor from the day’s journey. It is still the first watch of the night, and they have positioned the camp in a clearing, with a stream bordering one side of them as the night grows steadily darker. A breeze gently blows locks of her sunset orange hair as she turns her gaze from the forest beyond the campsite and onto the smaller dwarven woman who is standing resolutely some ten feet away. 

Tirza turns to look at Leliana, eyebrows arching in curiosity for a moment, but says nothing. She wants to dislike this bard, this chantry Sister, wants to dislike everything in this sun-touched world, but...there is something deeply compelling about this other woman. Leliana pushes on. “In Orlais your image was the pronouncement of your importance. Everything about you- right down to the curve of your smile - can mark your standing in society. Everyone is wearing a mask, even when they aren’t actually wearing one. Maybe especially then. There are always hungry people grasping for class and honor, but they’re not the same as those born into high class. I prided myself as a bard in being able to distinguish a person’s lineage within a  _ minute _ of knowing them.” She has the straightforward articulation she always speaks with, the lilting in her voice that marks her as a storyteller. But there is something casual in her tone, like she is simply curious, but not guarded and speaking in vague platitudes.

Tirza turns away and clenches her jaw. Every muscle in her thick frame pulled taut, she stares unwaveringly at the thick night around them, at the sprawling limbs of trees juxtaposed against the sky like pulsing veins of lyrium. Her face contorts in disgust. "Perhaps we should remain focused."

"I always find talking helps me to stay focused rather than doze off in a stupor," Leliana replies smartly, staging an exaggerated yawn. "I have no clue how to be a vigilant guard when there is nothing to entertain me but the lulling of the fire..." 

“Surely in Orlais, you had to sit still with yourself between the balls and parties?” Tirza says dryly, trying to push away the image now gathering in her mind -- a portrait of this human woman in an elegant gown, with the fire of her hair pinned up in such a way that highlights the grace of her neck, her collarbones, and her lips stained a deep burgundy, parting just slightly...Tirza clears her throat, pretending to focus on something moving on a distant tree limb. It shakes ever so slightly with the weight. 

Leliana simply hums thoughtfully, musing innocently on the question. “Mm, not particularly. Every day was an adventure when attending and entertaining new patrons, and the nights...well, most often during the nights  _ they _ entertained  _ me. _ ” She lets out a coy giggle and Tirza feels her cheeks burn as she understands  _ exactly _ the bard’s meaning was of “entertainment.” Not seeming to notice, however, Leliana presses on, saying, “But, I also was always listening, smiling on the outside while taking notes of every word spoken, and every word  _ not _ spoken. Who liked who, who was  _ afraid _ of who, and who was  _ afraid to like _ who.”

Shifting her weight, Tirza tries to relieve the numbness in her legs. She is uncomfortable from the length of the metal tasset from the skirts that dig into her thigh -- these damn armors fit her proportions so poorly, as merchants specializing in dwarven sizes are hard to find outside of the big cities on the surface where dwarven merchants most often congregate. Her legs are spaced decently apart, in a warrior’s stance, but her hands fidget, and so she clasps them in front of her, spine still rigid. 

Her mother’s voice, cold as always, echoes in her ear. The woman is so many years dead, and now her brother is dead, too -- the wrong brother murdered, she thinks bitterly -- and still her mother’s scoldings are fresh as the blood on the dusty Proving ground after a battle. Her voice speaks of every lesson detailing what was expected of their caste, every instruction that screamed out from the stone that lined the walls of her veins through which her royal blood flowed. 

Looking at the sky -- that vast empty darkness that still terrifies her, even if she will not admit it to these humans that she calls her company -- she suddenly wants to laugh. A laugh that feels like choking on ash. Leliana is still talking about Orlais and the politics of it all, of subtle betrayals and fear. Tirza had always thought of Orzammar as different than that; everything was in its place and everyone was direct in their opinions, solid and unyielding as stone. Bhelen had taught her differently. And now her name is erased from the memories, now she is nothing --  _ less _ than nothing -- to the society that had forged her. 

Now she sees every crack in it. Orzammar is torn to breaking points with its lies, she understands that. Every promise, every foundation that she had built her belief on was hollow as the empty thaigs they had searched through before finding Trian’s body resting clumsily on that dais, like some sacrificial animal culled without ceremony. 

And yet this human dares to say that she holds herself like nobility.

She wants to say,  _ There is nothing noble where I come from. _

But, something like shame grips her stomach instead.

She turns back to Leliana, who has one knee lazily pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around it casually. And then, her expression shocks Tirza. The bard has a way of pulling on a smirk that says something like,  _ I know more than you _ at any given moment. She has a way of holding wonder for the world, recounting her Maker’s splendor in it all, as if she has also been shown the surface world after a lifetime buried beneath the mountains. And yet, now, in this tense darkness, backlit by their dying fire and the gentle glow of these “moons” that she has told Tirza of...Leliana looks sad. Unbearably sad. Her bottom lip twitches before she bites on it, perhaps too hard. Her brows are drawn together. She looks older than she has ever looked in these few weeks since they met in a brawl in the tavern at Lothering. Right from the start, Leliana had shown a kind of wild spirit that promised to be unexpected -- but, somehow, Tirza has never expected  _ this _ emotion strung up on the other woman’s features. Not unless it was because of a favorite and particularly emotional tale sung around the fire during their meals; Tirza has never thought to see sorrow painting the bard’s features unless in sympathy to the stories she tells.

She does not know what to do.

She turns away, distressed. She wants to distract Leliana somehow.

Looking down at her feet, Tirza says slowly, “I don’t...care how I hold myself in someone else’s eyes. I know how I hold myself. I know myself.” She pauses, not sure what it is she is trying to say, or how she thought this would  _ comfort _ the other woman. Ancestors, it was always easier to relieve some political tension at a state dinner, wasn’t it? Her face is burning again, and the shame is returning to some place near her middle, but it feels different this time. She wants to see Leliana happy, but she isn’t entirely sure  _ why.  _ “What I mean is...I don’t place weight in nobility. And the nobility you know sound so foreign, so... _ excessive  _ and  _ strange _ , compared to the ones I know. They don’t sound anything like me. But I...thank you for the observation.”

Tirza is staring forward determinedly, trying not to cringe at the way the words had slowly petered out at the end, wanting perhaps to just jump into the stream beside them and let her armor sink her down among the reeds. She hears Leliana shift on the ground as the fire sparks lazily behind them. Something howls in the distance. “Of course, I meant no harm. I have heard stories of the great halls of Orzammar, so I intended to say that you…” Her voice seems to shrink, almost enough for Tirza to look at her, but she resists. “You are very beautiful. And I suppose I mean to say that you hold yourself like you have a deep well of respect for yourself and everything that you are. That is irreplaceable. Not even the most savage of droughts could dry it up. Such respect exists in nobility in Orlais -- and it is hard to replicate if you are not born among them, perhaps because the nobility do not allow the lower classes to think so highly of themselves. Isn’t that terrible?”

“Lately...I have been thinking that such things are terrible, yes,” Tirza says, hands trembling as she wrings them in front of her again. “I am still trying to understand the world, I admit.”

“I believe we all are, and only a fool in the clothes of a wise man would ever say that they have figured out all the secrets of the world,” Leliana replies, voice smooth and controlled again. “The Maker’s plan is mysterious, and sometimes we must act even without the sight of the full tapestry he is weaving.”

“I believe,” Tirza begins, holding strong in her mind the image of the human woman’s sadness from moments before, “that you have seen more than you are ever willing to let on. And that is both your strength and your weakness.”  _ And I also believe that you are very beautiful, too _ , she thinks to herself. She is still not sure what she should make of such silly thoughts, when there is a Blight that threatens all life, and everything she knew about the world was shrouded in layers of deceit and falsehoods.

Gathering the nerve, Tirza turns. Leliana looks surprised, tension caught in the graceful line of her shoulders. She leans her head to one side, hair falling gently to brush her cheek. There is a twinkle in her eye again. “You...are correct. I…I was...”

“I don’t intend to pry, Leliana,” Tirza says firmly, overcome for some reason at her use of the other woman's name. 

“Thank you,” she says, something stirring behind her words as she smiles shyly. “But perhaps you won’t need to pry anyway. Perhaps I will tell you everything, like the high tides pull the ocean onto the shore.” Her voice tilts up dreamily. “One day, I think.”

Tirza says nothing, holding her gaze steadily. Everything in the world is cloaked in shadow, everything but her. Her skin looks warm in the fire’s light.

Tirza smiles, too. A genuine one, with her teeth, and she isn’t even conscious of the gap between her front teeth. It is one of the first true smiles she can remember for weeks now, since choking on the blood in her mouth when Bhelen’s guards slammed her into the stone beside Trian’s body, screaming of the murder her hands were clean of. And then since she and Alistair had woken up knowing so many thousands of people were dead, including the man she had begun to admire, and Alistair seemed to revere.

She feels lightheaded, almost, like when she hasn’t had enough water or when she thinks too hard about that dizzying sky above them. But it also feels better than that, and more terrifying than that, all at once.

So, she turns away before it overwhelms her and she makes a fool of herself once more.

* * *

  
  
  


Weeks pass. They trudge through this country that seems to be made more of mud than anything else. She is cold. Out of all of the things she could have anticipated of the surface, Tirza never expected it to be cold. Alistair and Leliana explain to her that it isn’t always so cold, that the “weather” periodically changes throughout the year. They have few answers when she asks why other than vague notions of the “passage of time” or myths from Leliana and made-up stories from Alistair about the Maker wanting to get a yearly laugh at everyone falling on their rears when losing footing in the ice and “snow.”

They have allied with the Dalish and broken an old curse built on misdirected vengeance. They have trudged through forests that seemed to subtly shift around them, the trees themselves sometimes speaking and rhyming (Tirza has been reassured by all of her companions that trees do not often do that). 

They have been attacked by assassins sent by Loghain, and recruited one of them to fight for their cause. Tirza thinks she likes this Zevran, even though Alistair seems suspicious of him, just as he has been of Leliana and Morrigan as well. She has a hard time wrapping her mind around how Zevran has acted as a blade without any personal stakes in his causes; Orzammar had at least pretended to have fealty to their masters. And the Qunari, according to Sten, are indivisible from their blades and their tasks. In the quiet moments where she is left with her thoughts, she wonders if any of the casteless running for the Carta feel as Zevran does. This thought causes shame to crawl up her spine and sit in her lungs like a heavy stone -- she has hardly ever thought of the casteless before. Yes, she had instructed guards to ease their punishments on the casteless who had snuck their way into the main streets and markets, and to guide them back to Dust Town without a beating or fine or imprisonment -- but had she ever done anything more? Had she ever even  _ spoken _ to a casteless person?

All of these guilts and confusing realities of the surface and of Orzammar would be filling her mind ceaselessly, keeping her up at night -- if it weren’t for the darkspawn-infused “nightmares” that also plagued her sleep. Alistair has them, too, and talks with her through them, voice more hoarse with sleep but also calmer than it ever is in daytime. 

But there are things beyond the nightmares that Tirza wants to understand, and this is where Leliana comes in. Sometimes, when they have both claimed first watch of the night again -- which seems to be happening more and more often, though Tirza would never admit her eagerness for the bard to volunteer -- she asks Leliana to tell her different stories, any story at all that she wants to tell. 

Over time, Tirza finds herself sitting at last, just a precious few feet away from the other woman in the dirty, and she spares more glances than she would like to admit to the small gap between their legs folded on the ground, and how easy it would be for them to brush up against each other. There is an exposed length of Leliana’s legs between her boots and the skirts of the armor she wears now (bought from the Dalish clan), and the soft curve of the muscle in her legs makes Tirza’s breath come shorter.

They laugh together, devolving into increasingly silly stories. Tirza even tells her small bits of Orzammar on some nights where fatigue slows her mind from catching her tongue. Most often, she stills and shuts down after mentioning Orzammar, and Leliana deftly changes the subject. 

One particular night, somewhere in the middle of the country between the Brecilian Forest and Redcliffe, they have built a camp pushed up against a steep hillside. Morrigan sleeps closest to the rock face, needing the knowledge that nothing could get behind her back. Tirza is especially tired from hunting and skinning their food of the day, as well as the efforts from all the days before. She tries to always walk ahead of the group, tries to look indomitable, but the effort of it is draining when every stride the humans and elf take are two large steps for her. This one night, however, she allows herself the vulnerability to ask for second watch instead, as she does not know if she could be as vigilant as necessary for first watch. Leliana and Alistair immediately step up for first watch, adamant that she get her rest. As she crawls into her tent, sleep grabs her before she has time to recognize it.

And it lights her mind on fire. It feels like a beast of poisoned claws is tearing out her organs, filling the sockets of her eyes with its own sight. The song, now disturbingly familiar, is in her ears again. Everything smells of rotting flesh. But her body is jerking forwards, drawn towards the heart of the song, pounding feverishly and erratically. She is sprinting. Others are gathered around her, their movements jerky, grey flesh hanging from their bones. 

Then, finally, it is there. What she has been waiting for. The Archdemon, scales glistening, the light catching the sharpness of their edges. Its neck rises high above her, massive jaws spreading open and --

And Tirza wakes, in her body, her  _ own _ body, panting and crying, rubbing at her eyes and nose. As she does so, she is surprised when the cold metal of her vambrace smacks her face. Sitting up, the armor pains and pinches her in various places. Blinking in the dim light, she realizes that she had only taken off her breastplate before falling unconscious. The stiff plackart at her abdomen digs sharply into her heaving, sweat-soaked chest.

Steadying her breath, she reaches her shaking hands down across the plackart, fingers brushing the grooves in the surface, both decorative and practical for helping redirect blows, and finds the leather straps. Unfastening them, she pulls the dual plates of it off, freeing her stomach and waist, and takes long and deep breaths. 

The flap at the entrance of her tent is parted slightly, letting the still-dancing fire slip through in a sliver of orange light. It cuts across her still armored legs, catching on her dark skin and the dull silver, and it reminds her of that cold light burning on the Archdemon. But this feels different, even from this distance. The light of the fire is less like an absence.

There are murmured voices coming from outside, too. A plucking of strings. It is so different a sound compared to the drumbeat of the darkspawns’ savage hearts. 

Tirza reaches up to her tightly wound hair in its stiff updo and pulls at the tie around it, feeling her small, tight curls bounce back into place on top of her head and falling around her cheeks. Slowly, she realizes she does not want to be alone. Crawling out the tent, still half-dressed in her armor, she makes her way to where Leliana and Alistair sit semi-vigilantly.

Alistair is polishing his sword, tongue between his teeth as he concentrates, one of his legs bouncing absentmindedly against the dirt. Leliana is strumming on a lute she haggled from some traders they crossed paths with a few days before. They were in desperate need of lightening their load of goods so they could get to the safety of Denerim faster, and were happy to part with it for just a few copper and some flirty words from the bard. Now, after some awkward tuning, she has been plucking at it as though she has never held another instrument in her life. 

When Tirza approaches them, she stands a few feet away, hands crossed behind her back. Her fellow Warden looks up first; 

“Heeeyyyy -- wait, it’s not time to switch already, is it? You’re hardly dressed for the part.” Alistair’s expression seems to cycle through nervousness, eyes shooting around for potential threats, and then settles on a smile that feels nothing short of goofy. “Ooooor are you looking for some --” His gaze slides over to Leliana, who looks up now, bright eyes blinking at the two of them. Alistair’s voice shoots up an octave. “Company?” He finishes.

Tirza tries to glare at him, but finds none of her usual steel in it. A breeze seems to pick up. She says nothing then, suddenly and inexplicably nervous. She feels trapped between that underworld of the Archdemon and this softer one here, where her friends sleep and relax through the bitter night. “You’re a fool,” she says at last, “but a lucky one.”

“You know, I can’t always tell with you whether you’re trying to insult or compliment me. You should try Morrigan’s way, it’s much more direct,” Alistair says with a scoff.

“Because Morrigan never compliments you,” Leliana interjects.

“Precisely my point!” Alistair replies easily.

They are both turned to Tirza, however, the ease starting to wipe off their expressions. Her jaw clenches. They do not quite feel real, even though they are seated before her.

“Why don’t you sit with us?” Leliana asks gently.

When she doesn’t respond, or move at all, something in Alistair’s mind seems to click, his eyes widening in fear. He asks gently, “Did you have another…?”

Tirza nods. “The Archdemon again.”

Leliana stops strumming, leaving her last discordant note hanging in the air. Somewhere behind them, their mabari grunts in his sleep. Both of them look at her in worry. 

“I don’t know how long we have,” Alistair says at last, his sword abandoned in the short grass and dirt at his feet. He rubs his face, his light brown skin cast in the shadows behind his still-gloved hand. “We need to get the help of Arl Eamon as fast as possible. The Circle can wait.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate the help of the mages, either,” Leliana chimes in. “We will need more than an Arl’s thrown-together army that will likely have barely enough swords to go around, won’t we?”

“Eamon is not just a good man, but a powerful one,” Alistair retorts with a flash of anger. One of his hands balls into a fist. “And the Blight isn’t our only enemy, but Loghain, too. Eamon has power against Loghain.”

“Please,” Tirza says. “I don’t care where we go next, as long as it is not Orzammar. We will get both the help of the mages and the Arl, I promise. But for now -- drop it.” There is a low warning in her voice. “We will decide our course as we get closer to Lake Calenhad.”

Alistair seems to shrink back in shame. “Right, of course.” He clears his throat. “I know you must be having trouble with...all of this. I’m not exactly being a helpful senior Grey Warden here.”

“You are more help than you know, my friend,” Tirza says politely. “I just want to…” She trails off.

“Sit,” Leliana says again, insistently.

This time, she does. Sitting between the two of them, Tirza pulls her still armored legs to her chest, shaking in the cold, and rests her head upon the plates over her knees. She stares forward and remembers that day weeks ago now when Leliana first made her smile. 

The tune from before picks up again, and she realizes Leliana is playing her instrument again quietly. It is something playful and lilting, so far away from everything Tirza feels. 

And, though Leliana plays on, Tirza can feel that the bard is looking at her curiously, with those bright eyes that, she has admitted, search for every clue a person does not even know they are leaving. Tirza suspects Leliana’s mind is still hovering over her admission that she does not wish to go to Orzammar. She has said to Alistair before that it is not her desired next move, but knows there was an urgency here that gives away something deeper. She closes her eyes for a moment, sighing deeply.

Finally, she speaks. “Would you both tell me more about dreams?” Raising her head, she looks between the two humans. “I’ve never had any before these ones of darkspawn and the Archdemon, but your human songs and stories use the word favorably. I don’t understand why.”

“Dreams aren’t really  _ understood _ , either,” Alistair says lightly. “Few nights ago I had a dream that I was made of cheese -- and your mabari friend over there  _ ate my leg _ ! He ran around the campsite chewing on it! The rest of you were laughing!”

As Leliana giggles in disbelief, Alistair points at her wildly, exclaiming “See! You’re laughing now, and I still have all my limbs intact!”

Tirza tugs at one of her curls absentmindedly, still staring forward, but her mouth quirks up slightly. “I would not laugh at you in such circumstances, Alistair.”

“Yes, you wouuulldd,” he prods.

Tirza’s mouth breaks into a full smile. “Yes, I would.”

And then, all three of them are laughing. It is a rare moment of unity between them, and she can’t help but wonder if they will wake Zevran, Sten and Morrigan accidentally. Part of her wants them to wake up, anyway, to join them in their unexpected mirth. For the first couple weeks on the Surface, Tirza had been paranoid (as most dwarves are) that her feet would give way and she would plummet right into the bright blue abyss above her. The sky stretched so far that when she tried to comprehend the length of the horizon, it made her dizzy in a whole new way. But, when she is sitting at camp with these humans that she wants to but cannot quite find the nerve to call  _ friends _ \-- the word seems larger than mountains in her mouth -- Tirza feels weightless in a way that is not terrifying. The laughter transforms her; even without stone walls around them, it seems to echo with joy out here in the open woods more than it ever did during endless banquets in Orzammar. 

She glances over at Leliana, at the dimples in her cheeks when she smiles, and how the pale moonlight seems to gently caress her cheekbones. She cannot breathe.

The stars pattern the sky beyond sight above her, and, looking from the constellations to the woman beside her and back again, Tirza considers that, maybe, falling isn’t so bad a thing. 

When a kind of warmth and silence has settled upon her, and her cheeks hurt from smiling, her question about dreams returns to her again. And, somehow, Leliana seems to hear her thoughts. Placing her lute in the dirt beside her, she angles her body towards Tirza, propping herself up on one elbow. “Don’t believe that our friend here represents all dreams, though. It was a dream that the Maker spoke to me through, and called me to you.” They stare at each other a long moment, then, both seeming to realize the intimacy of Leliana’s wording.  _ Called me to you.  _ Leliana licks her lips for a moment and then blinks, rousing herself. “Dreams are our minds at their most vulnerable, the only moments our souls are closest to the Maker -- and to the demons of the Fade. They can show our fears --” she casts a teasing glance at Alistair and giggles, “--such as being made of the finest cheese in Orlais.”

“Hey! I would be a Fereldan cheese, thank you very much!” Alistair whines, tracing some of the grooves on his armor absentmindedly, one of his legs bouncing restlessly.

“I’ve never had a  _ good _ Fereldan cheese,” Leliana crinkles her nose. “But, I suppose you were being enjoyed by a dog who was eating a pile of  _ dung _ yesterday.”

“He was curious!” 

“I am also curious about the world above ground, Alistair,” Tirza interjects, “but I do not eat everything in sight.” Before he has time to retort, however, she turns back to Leliana, pushing an errant curl off her forehead and adjusting her undershirt as she repositions herself. “Tell me more.”

Leliana nods graciously. “They are more than our fears, of course: our hopes, our secret wishes. Some think they are prophecies for the future, while sometimes...they are memories of the past.”

“That sounds nothing like the dreams of the Archdemon. Perhaps we should not even call those dreams,” Tirza says, looking curiously at Alistair.

“Sure, ‘visions’ could work,” he replies, “but at the end of the day it still happens in our sleep and we can’t stop it, no matter what we call it.” He shrugs. Then, after a moment, he sighs. “Sorry, I wish you had a better frame of reference for all this. I can’t explain the Fade to you, I slept through Templar training, and I’m not sure the Chantry even knows what they’re talking about. But it’s big and unknown, and the Darkspawn horde is, too. So are they that different, dreams and these visions?” He scratches the back of his neck, looking somewhat frustrated. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Tirza nods, though not quite understanding. Someone stirs behind them, and she turns around, her vigilance never wearing off. In the dirt beside the fire is her mabari curled up on one side, dark jowls twitching over his sharp teeth in the firelight as his legs start pounding feverishly as though he is running horizontally. He barks quietly, eyes still closed. 

“Is Paragon dreaming?” she asks.

“Yeah, he is,” Alistair says, before his face lights up with a flare of mischief. “Oooh, maybe he’s the one made of cheese this time and  _ I’m _ chasing him! And I will valiantly prove to the more snooty members of our company that Ferelden  _ does _ make a good cheese!”

Tirza rolls her eyes. 

“Only in your dreams,” Leliana says, with a wink saved just for Tirza. 

“What do you most often dream of, Leliana?” Tirza blurts, and feels herself immediately pale, wondering what made her so forward. She swallows hard, balling her hands into fists to try to focus on something other than the embarrassment. “If you are comfortable sharing, that is.”

Leliana smiles, her bright pink lips curling up shyly. “Images of the past, mostly. From simpler times, when I was a little girl by the Waking Sea. I dream of the homes I knew and believed in at the time, before such ideas began to feel childish.”

“Tell me about them.” Tirza’s voice is low and quiet, like the stirring of the flames behind them. She moves ever so slightly closer, feeling hyper aware of each inch of ground that shrinks away. Her heart is pounding more frenzied than that ancient and rhythmless beat of the Taint and the darkspawn. There is a dull ache in her head, and cold sweat on the back of her neck.

“Gladly,” Leliana whispers, her eyes darting to the ground, to the ever-shrinking space between them, and back to Tirza’s face. And then, they seem to forget all about words and dreams, as a pause stretches on too long for it to be natural, and Tirza is swept away in the indescribable  _ something _ that is stirring between them.

“Uhhhh, you know what?” Alistair interjects, and Tirza and Leliana both shake their heads as if suddenly dragged from a stupor. He stages a yawn so loud that the still-sleeping mabari grunts, as if in warning. “I’m suddenly very sleepy, really just so tired -- it’s past my bedtime, you know, there’s an official Warden bedtime, Tirza and -- maybe I’m sleeping now, and  _ this _ is all the real dream, huh? Anyway. I’ll...leave you two alone now. Bye.”

And with that unceremonious exit, he hops to his feet, gives the dog a thorough scratch on his belly, and slips into his tent. “Sweet dreams,” Leliana calls after the canvas flaps shut behind him before she leans back and sprawls out on the sparse vegetation herself, her hair spreading around her like candlelight. “Come,” she beckons, “look at the stars with me.”

Tirza freezes, suddenly unsure. It is as though something in her snaps back to her old state of alert. They are on watch, even if she is not fully armored. If they sat there giggling like children on the ground, how easily could they be attacked or snuck up on? She remembers the sleepless days wandering the Deep Roads after her exile before finding Duncan and his company, and how every sound made her jump and reach for her blade. How that vigilance is the only reason she is topside and still breathing, despite it all. “I’m not sure that’s wise,” she says, trying for her usual stoicism. “We are still on watch, Leliana.”

“Yes, we are,” Leliana replies easily, turning her head in the dirt, the firelight casting half her face in shadow. “I’ll protect you. Just for a short moment. We are safe here, and you will sense any coming darkspawn no matter how you are sitting.”

Tirza hesitates, until Leliana extends a hand. Her fingers are long and slender, with a few calluses from knocking arrows. Slowly, Tirza scoots over and lays herself flat on the ground, feeling a bump in the dirt dig into her back, so she adjusts her position until she is comfortable. Leliana is less than six inches away. Her hand brushes the back of Tirza’s teasingly.

“I hope we make it far enough north in our travels that you are able to see the ocean,” Leliana whispers, her voice lilting with the music to her language she carries from her previous craft. “No songs give justice to the feeling of standing on a cliff before the Waking Sea -- the salty sea blows up into your face like the breath of some giant creature, like the whole world is just one large living being, and we are its protectors.”

Her hand takes Tirza’s and squeezes it once; it is warm and soft, despite everything. “I mention this because the stars always make me think of the sea. They are two infinities we get to experience in this world -- and the great fascination of many poets.” She giggles. “And it is the Waking Sea I often revisit in my dreams.”

“So it’s a memory, then?” Tirza asks, surprised at how timid her voice sounds.

“Yes, I believe so,” Leliana sighs. “I’m not sure if it is even real, but I hold onto it all the same. It is one of the only memories I have of my mother. She is singing, though I can never hear the words, and walking hand in hand with me along the sea. It is simple, but I feel so much love from that. I cannot even remember her face, just the smell of her.”

“Go on,” Tirza whispers, wanting to hear every shred of memory that has made this human who she is.

“Mother kept dried these flowers in her closet, amongst her clothes,” Leliana’s smile is evident in her voice. “Small white Fereldan wildflowers, with a sweet fragrance. She called them ‘Andraste’s Grace.’” There is a long pause. “They were very rare in Orlais.”

There is something bittersweet and longing in the final admission, and Tirza can only imagine all the years Leliana must have spent entertaining at court, trying to find those flowers in any field or garden or bouquet, just for a hint of the scent that felt like love and like home. She wonders, too, how long Leliana must have searched for the songs her mother sang, whose tunes feel just out of reach.

“My mother never sang unless it was a dirge,” Tirza admits, feeling strange speaking of her. “She has also passed on, though I have more memories of her than you do of your mother. Not all of them are pleasant, though I believe she did what she thought was necessary to make sure I had respect for…” She trails off, then, wanting to cut out her own tongue for saying so much.  _ She wanted me to have respect for my station, _ she thinks. How could she admit that without also admitting that she was once royalty? And she has cut every bit of Orzammar out of her body and spirit like impurities in a stone. There is no returning to that. “That I had respect for myself,” she breathes, knowing she could have passed it off better. 

But Leliana does not question it this time, mercifully. “I would give anything for another memory, even if it were a cruel one. Though, I am sorry you do not have more loving ones.”

“That is the life I have led,” Tirza shrugs. “As you said of your vision from the Maker -- it led me here.”

“Are you glad for it?” Leliana asks, turning onto her side. Tirza can feel the intensity of those searching eyes once again. “That you are here?”

Tirza stares at the infinity of the stars a moment longer before turning onto her side as well, the plate armor on her legs clanking in the still night air. She thinks of all the expectations of Orzammar, how her honorbound loyalty was a bind that had stunted her vision, cutting off so much of the world from her knowledge and sight. How if she had never been betrayed, she would have lived a life serving a cutthroat regime and marrying some noble man she could never love in order to produce the next generation of children they could inflate with ignorant self-importance.

“Yes, I am,” she says, voice strong and steady. She reaches out and brushes Leliana’s cheek, softly, as if afraid that she could disappear at any moment, as if this is the first and only real dream Tirza has ever had. “Yes, I am glad I am here with you.”

* * *

  
  


Several more weeks pass. They end up journeying to the Circle Tower first, hoping to find a lead on the location of Sten’s missing sword. Though they are simply sent on another chase, they still venture to the Circle and, on the boat ride to the center of Lake Calenhad, Tirza has to be calmed by the combined efforts of all of her companions with each strange lurch and tilt through the deep, dark waters. Leliana holds her hand and tells her again about the ocean, while Zevran makes her laugh with stories of incompetent sailors on his journey from Antiva, and Alistair tells a story about when he stole a boat in Redcliffe without Arl Eamon’s permission. 

They fight demons in the fallen Circle, and Tirza finds herself woefully unequipped to deal with the questions of mages and templars presented before her; she has never known a mage before Morrigan and her mother, and never met a templar until the sleep-deprived Knight Commander greets her distractedly at the base of the tower. However, she knows she and Alistair owe their lives to Morrigan and her mother’s efforts, while Alistair has never spoken favorably of templar training. Even having been part of the Chantry, Leliana is sympathetic to the mages, and some of the templars suggest believing every mage guilty by default -- and deserving execution by her blade. 

This sends a chill down her spine. She knows what it is to be accused of crimes not committed. She is afraid for these people that they have apparently lived their lives surrounded by armed guards who see them as one step away from some kind of abomination deserving neither pity nor mercy. 

She meets another wage in the Circle, Wynne, who has kind eyes and an old soul. Wynne believes in the innocence of many of her peers, and that is enough for her.

So they save every mage that they can. They are taken into the Fade, which feels like a deep fog in the mind, through which golden light breaks through and scatters in prisms and shapes and pure, overwhelming  _ emotion.  _ Is this what dreams are for her friends, every single night, every time they close their eyes?

It is something that troubles and mystifies her even when they are miles away from the Tower and on the road towards Redcliffe. She spends many hours questioning Wynne about magic and the Fade, just trying to understand how it works and why she will never experience it beyond the tauntings of that Sloth demon. But, beyond that, Tirza also asks Wynne and any passing traders and herbalists they encounter about one other thing -- one wish, really - that has dominated a rather embarrassing amount of her waking hours: she wants to find this flower, this Andraste’s Grace, for Leliana.

She has gathered that they grow in partial shade, often beside large trees, sprouting up between their roots. They come in single blooms, on thick stalks, not among bushes. Their centers are pink.

Whenever she departs from the campsite in the evenings to forage for berries or other useful herbs, she finds herself pressing her face into every white flower she can find, trying to identify that unique sweet scent, and feeling slightly ridiculous as she does so. Tirza has asked Zevran for help, and got a hearty laugh when she explained why, though he accepted all the same. At one point, he suddenly grabs her by the back of her chest plate while she leans over some unsuspecting flower and violently yanks her back so hard that she loses her balance. Tirza acts on instinct, swiping his legs with one of hers and he topples on top of her. They yell at each other in alarm for a moment before he explains the poisonous aspects of the flower; he has seen it used in assassinations before. Then, they are laughing at the narrow escape.

But, before long, they find one. It is perfect; each petal is healthy and bright and symmetrical to each other, like something out of a painting. And the scent is everything Leliana said it was; it smells like honey and the fertile earth at the bottom of a spring of water. There is something nostalgic to it; less than six months ago, Tirza had never even seen a flower with her own eyes, and yet she feels like she has stepped halfway into some buried memory of an untroubled youth. Perhaps it really does carry the grace of the beautiful woman’s god, or maybe Tirza has spent so long thinking of that tucked away memory of Leliana’s dream that she has willed it forth herself. Either way, a peace settles over her as she gently picks it. 

The sun is still in the sky, beginning to tinge the world with those joyful oranges and pinks, so Tirza decides, once she gets back to camp, to ask Leliana to take a walk with her. The smile she is met with, however, makes her contemplate momentarily if she is even  _ capable _ of walking, she feels so weak in the knees.

They walk for a while along a stream that chitters and chimes as the water diligently makes its way downhill and over submerged rocks and through narrow paths in the dirt. They make small talk about the day’s work and about Wynne and Alistair’s latest teasing row about what must have been sewing, though it got so out of hand it was hard to tell. Tirza’s hand keeps reflexively going to the small pouch at her hip she has tucked the flower away in, hands pulling at the tie anxiously. 

As if in sync, they slow at the base of a tree so large Tirza cannot properly see where it meets the sky. All the ailing light of the day stretches and bends across the rippling water of the stream, like the sun itself is laying down across the surface of the world to rest. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine the bubbling noise of the water and the chirps of birds and skittering of creatures climbing through the branches as the sounds of a sea port, or a lonely cliffside. She tries to imagine Leliana’s mother singing, but comes up short with only the sound of her own mother’s scoldings and rarely bestowed praise.

“There are things I should tell you, Leliana,” she says. “For the sake of my own honor, as well as my respect for you. Things that, since our earliest conversations, you have wondered about.” 

_ Has anyone ever told you that you hold yourself like nobility?  _ The question echoes in her mind, as if the trees have bent down to whisper to her. 

“Of course I am curious,” Leliana admits, voice cautious. “It is in my nature, from all my years playing Orlais’ Game. But also…” she takes a shuddering breath, which makes Tirza turn to her. “You are a dear friend to me. And I sometimes wonder if…”

Feeling as though her chest is expanding, Tirza steps closer, grabbing one of Leliana’s hands. “Yes,” she says simply. “I wonder, too.”

“You do?” Leliana whispers, squeezing her hand. 

“Of course I do,” Tirza replies breathlessly, feeling as if she has been obvious with her heart these last weeks in ways that she never has been before. She laughs, trying to shake off all the nervous energy budding in her limbs. Her eyes are wet, but she is not ashamed of the emotion. “But I…” she lowers her head, as if bowing. It is a formality she knows she should let go of, but cannot yet bring herself to. “I cannot share everything about who I am yet. Perhaps one day, but for now...I want to live as though I have only ever been sun-touched.”

Leliana’s hand is cupping her cheek, then, thumb stroking a tear away as she smiles. “In my eyes, you are not just sun-touched. You are the sun.”

Tirza swallows heavily, placing her hand above Leliana’s for a moment as they breathe. Relief and affection flood her body in equal measure; she does not know how she came to be this favored by whatever larger powers are at work in the universe. Perhaps her ancestors do still look upon her kindly. Perhaps the Stone knows more than Orzammar does.

With shaking hands, she tugs at the tie on the pouch at her waist and digs impatiently inside of it for the flower, clumsily bumping into the other loose contents before grasping the stem. Holding up that beautiful white bloom, looking slightly crumpled but still impossibly perfect, she pushes it towards the taller woman. 

“A flower? For me? How lovely!” Leliana cries, clearly not yet recognizing it.

“Smell it,” Tirza urges gently. 

Raising an eyebrow for a moment, Leliana leans forward, eyes closing for the briefest moment before they shoot back open. “These are mother’s! Andraste’s Grace!” She chokes on the last word, cheeks pale and eyes watery. “You -- ?”

“The night you told me about them, we were discussing dreams and the idea of...home,” Tirza explains, voice suddenly strong and sure. “You told me of how this flower means some of both of those things to you, and I wanted to find a way to express, Leliana, that over these weeks...you have come to mean both of those things to me. Just you.” She clears her throat as Leliana gasps. “And, well, I’m not sure how humans do it typically, but I want to make my intentions clear, and continue only with your consent, that I wish to --”

Suddenly, she is cut off in her declaration when Leliana falls to her knees so their faces are at level height with each other. Her breath is hot in Tirza’s face for a single moment before Leliana kisses her passionately. Tirza pulls her closer in turn, deepening the kiss, and Leliana’s hand still clutched tightly around the Andraste’s Grace is pressed tight to both of their still-armored chests.

Forcing herself to pull away for a moment, breathing hard, Tirza asks, “So... do I have permission to court you?”

Leliana practically squeals with delight before smirking and whispering hoarsely in her ear, “Oh, Tirza, I plan on working a  _ lot _ harder, so that  _ I _ can court  _ you _ .”

Tirza’s face is burning, wondering what exactly Leliana plans to work harder at, but thrilled by the possibilities. She loops a finger around the belt at the woman’s middle and drags her closer, so they are pressed hip to hip, chest to chest. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It is indeed,” Leliana laughs.

“I’ve never been one to walk away from a challenge,” Tirza whispers, leaning in and pressing a kiss to the tender skin of Leliana’s neck, just below the jaw. It draws out a noise close to a whimper.

“Good.”

  
And they are kissing again as a sunset erupts above and behind them, unfolding the mysteries of one of the many infinities of the world -- because there are so much more than the two of sky and ocean, she now knows. Leliana’s soft hand is at the back of her neck, pressing that honey-sweet flower to her skin and the rivulets of her hair, and Tirza wonders if  _ this _ waking moment is the kind of  _ dream _ that all the poets cannot stop writing about.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
